


Echo of the Music

by jane_ways



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_ways/pseuds/jane_ways
Summary: "It is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen."Finrod writes of love and nightingales (until all he can hear is the sound of water flowing).





	Echo of the Music

He writes of nightingales under the glimmering light of Telperion, of nightingales and true love. How her voice is like song; her touch, as light and graceful as the flutter of feathers. His brothers tease him for being overwrought, and his sister is too young yet to understand. His cousin of the golden voice only smiles encouragingly.

She does not come with him, and on the ice, songs of nightingales haunt his dreams.

In this new land, there are still nightingales, and he is grateful for this, their melodies like a promise. He still writes of her, but as the years pass, the memories slip through his fingers, leaving only echoes in their wake. He listens, hoping for some sign of her, but hears only nightingales, their song keening in the night.

And then he meets his brother’s not-yet-never-can-be wife, and all the song in his heart stills. He hears only the rippling of water, the sound that woke his grandfather on the shores of Cuiviénen. The sound that calls him home. The wisdom of her heart is deep as the Aeluin, and she is steady as the waves that beat upon its shores.  When he picks up his pen now it is to write of her, that her words will flow down the ages, tumbling over the years.

She dies. His brother dies. He writes no more of nightingales.


End file.
